The Falcon at the Portal: An Amelia Peabody Mystery (9 page)

He reappeared two days later, as suddenly as he had departed, and replied to our agitated queries by handing over a sheaf of telegrams. A glance at one of them explained all. It had been sent to a Mr. Hiram Applegarth at the Savoy, and read, TWO

FINE  HEART SCARABS RECENTLY ACQUIRED FROM UNIMPEACHABLE SOURCE STOP LOOK FORWARD TO YOUR VISIT.

Emerson, thumbing through the messages, let out a string of swear words, ending with an emphatic "Damnation! Did you telegraph every dealer in Europe? This must have cost a fortune. And was it absolutely necessary to put up at the Savoy?"

"It was necessary to establish an impression of wealth," Ramses explained. "I had to give them a return address, and I could hardly use ours."

"Since you did not ask your father or me for money, I presume you used Nefret's," I said.

"It is not
mine,"
Nefret snapped, before Ramses could answer. "It is
ours.
His, yours, David's, Lia's. We're a family, aren't we? I've told you before—"

"Yes, my dear, you have." I studied my son, who looked back at me with a particularly enigmatic expression. When Nefret said, "What is mine is yours," she really meant it; but for some individuals it is easier to give than to receive, and for Ramses to accept assistance of any kind was truly remarkable. It was not only an acknowledgment of her equality, but a subjugation of that towering pride of his. I gave him an approving smile. "Well, we will say no more about it, since the procedure appears to have been effective."

"It gives us several possible leads, at any rate," said Ramses. "I—Nefret and I—had to act without delay. We are due to leave in a week."

It was true, and we were all anxious to be off. The dreary days of autumn were upon us; only a few yellowed leaves clung to the barren branches, and the last roses had perished in an early frost. The hours of darkness were lengthening, the wind blew chill and wet.

In short, the weather was ideal for criminal endeavors. That night the lodgekeeper and his family were snugly shut up in their house, curtains drawn against the rainy darkness. Our pampered and lazy dogs were not inclined to leave their warm kennel on such a night. We had spent the day sightseeing, and at my suggestion we all retired early.

At least I
thought
we had all retired early. I should have known Ramses would ignore my motherly advice. I never got round to asking why he was not asleep at that hour in the morning (two A.M., to be precise). His room is over the library, and his window was open (I am a firm believer in the benefits of fresh air), but I doubt anyone else would have heard the sound of breaking glass, muffled as it was by wind and rain. As the Egyptians say, Ramses can hear a whisper across the Nile.

It would not have occurred to Ramses that he might want assistance. He went down alone to investigate.

The sounds that followed his discovery of the burglars would have wakened the dead. Even Emerson, who is a heavy sleeper, and who had good reason to be weary that night, shot out of bed. He immediately fell over a chair, so I got to the door before him, but I heard his breathless curses close behind me as I ran along the hall. There was no time to lose, no time even to assume a dressing gown; the sound that had waked me was the explosion of a firearm.

I might not have known precisely where the action was taking place had I not seen a white form ahead of me. Ghostly and palely glimmering, it fled along the dimly lighted hall until it reached the top of the stairs, and then ... For one extremely disconcerting moment I thought it had taken flight. A solid thump and a loud "Damn!" assured me the form was human—Nefret's form, to be precise—and that she had slid down the banister in order to save a few precious seconds. Picking herself up at once, she dashed along the corridor that led to the library.

My descent was of necessity less precipitous. Emerson, who can cover the ground quite rapidly once he is fully awake, ran smack into me at the bottom of the steps. Catching me to him as I tottered, he looked wildly around and bellowed, "Where the devil
...?"

There could be no doubt of the answer; sounds of struggle and the destruction of furniture issued from the direction of the library, and the lights in that chamber shone out into the corridor. Emerson said a very bad word and went on, pulling me with him.

A scene of disaster met our eyes. Rain blew in through the shattered windows, and broken glass littered the floor. Chairs had been overturned and books toppled from the shelves. A motionless body lay facedown by the desk; several drawers stood open, and their contents had been strewn across the carpet. Also on the carpet were two men, rolling back and forth as they struggled. One of them was a heavyset individual wearing rough, dark clothing; his right hand gripped a pistol, and his right wrist was gripped by his adversary, who was, as the Reader must have anticipated, my son, attired only in the loose cotton trousers he preferred to a nightshirt. Light as a windblown leaf, Nefret danced round them, her knife raised, waiting for an opportunity to strike. She jumped aside, swearing, as the burglar flung Ramses over onto his back—and onto the broken glass. His hand did not lose its grip, but the expletive that burst from his lips proved him a worthy son of his father.

"Stand out of the way, Nefret," said Emerson. Seizing the burglar by the collar of his coat, he lifted him up into the air and removed the pistol from his nerveless grasp. Ramses got slowly to his feet, streaming blood and gasping for breath. When he got it back, his first words were directed at Nefret.

"Damnation! Why didn't you go after him?"

Emerson looked from the motionless body on the floor to the squirming body he held at arm's length. "Was there another one?" he inquired.

"Yes," Nefret said, through her pretty white teeth. "I didn't go after him because I thought possibly Ramses might need assistance with the other two. Silly little me! Do forgive me!"

"But he got the scarab, damn it!"

"Are you certain?" I asked, as Emerson shook the burglar in an absentminded sort of way and Nefret glared at her brother.

"Yes," Ramses said. "When I switched on the lights, that fellow actually had it in his hand. I went for him, and he tossed it to the third man, who rather lost his head, I think, because he went straight out the French doors without stopping to open them."

"What was that one doing?" Emerson inquired interestedly, indicating the fallen burglar.

"Trying to interfere," said his son.

"He had a pistol, too, I see," said Emerson. "You may as well pick it up, Peabody, my dear; I doubt if he is in any condition to use it, but it is always wise to take precautions. Ramses, apologize to your sister."

"I apologize," Ramses muttered.

"Now that I come to think about it, I'm rather flattered," Nefret said, with one of those abrupt changes of mood some people found so charming (and some other people found so exasperating). She started toward Ramses and let out a little scream; she had trod on some of the broken glass.

Emerson picked her up in the arm that was not holding the burglar and transferred her to a chair. "Be careful where you step, Ramses, you aren't wearing shoes either. It's too late to go after the one that got away. I'll wager this gentleman will be glad to tell us everything we want to know."

He smiled affably at the burglar, a burly fellow whom he continued to hold with one hand, as easily as if he had been a child. The entire household had been aroused, and a good number of them had joined us, shouting questions and brandishing various deadly instruments. The burglar glared wildly at Emerson, bare to the waist and bulging with muscle—at Gargery and his cudgel—at Selim, fingering a knife even longer than Nefret's—at assorted footmen armed with pokers, spits, and cleavers—and at the giant form of Daoud advancing purposefully toward him. "It's a bleedin' army!" he gurgled. "The lyin' barstard said you was some kind of professor!"

By the time we got things sorted out, the gray dawn was breaking. It had taken me a good twenty minutes to get all the broken glass out of Ramses's back and Nefret's feet, and I doubted I would ever get the bloodstains out of the carpet. The burglars had been removed by our local constabulary. The one on the floor had regained consciousness but insisted, between groans, that he could not walk and must be carried on a litter. He did appear to be rather crippled.

The other burglar had been anxious to cooperate but he could offer no means of tracing the man who had hired him and his associates, as he had approached them in one of the foul grog shops in London where such petty criminals (I am informed) are to be found. Disguised as before in turban and brown skin, the villain had paid a small amount down, with the promise of a larger sum upon delivery. He had described the object he wanted in precise detail, and showed them a picture postcard of a scarab in order to make identification easier. He had even given them a rough plan of the house, indicating Emerson's study as the most likely place where the object would be hidden.

After digging in his pockets, Bert (the burglar) produced this paper, and I was not surprised to see that there was no writing at all on it, only an emphatic X marking the room in question. The scoundrel had taken no chances of any kind. Instead of arranging a rendezvous in London, he had indicated he would be waiting outside the gates of the park, where he would hand over the rest of the money in exchange for the scarab.

The futility of pursuit was obvious. The villain must have heard the shot and seen lights go on all over the house; he had known immediately that the plan had gone awry. Had he dared wait long enough to receive the scarab from the third burglar? We might never know. No trace of burglar, scarab or villain was found, though as soon as it was light enough we conducted a thorough search of the grounds. The rain had washed away footprints and the tracks of motorcar, cart, carriage, or cycle.

I made all the searchers change into dry clothes and then we gathered in the small dining room for a belated and hearty breakfast. Gargery was still annoyed because he had not arrived on the scene in time to hit someone with his cudgel.

"You ought to have told me and Bob and Jerry you had got yourselves into mischief," he said reproachfully. "We'd have stood guard."

"There was nothing to tell, Gargery," I assured him. "We had no reason to anticipate any such thing. I still can't account for it. Why would he—whoever he is—go to such lengths to get the thing back?"

"Obviously," said Ramses, "because there was something about the confounded thing that might betray his identity. But what?"

"You observed nothing?" I asked.

"No," said Ramses, visibly chagrined.

"Even more to the point," said Nefret, "is how the fellow knew we had it."

"Hmph." Emerson rubbed his now bristly chin, with a sound like a file rasping on metal.

"We can discuss the ramifications of that question later," I said. Selim and Daoud were listening with amiable interest. They were quite accustomed to our little criminal encounters, but sooner or later one of them, probably Selim, was going to ask for additional details. Under ordinary circumstances they would have been among the first to be taken into our confidence. Under these circumstances I preferred to delay the revelation.

"It will all be gone into at the proper time," I continued. "Get a little more sleep if you can, or at least rest awhile longer."

"England is a dangerous country," Selim remarked. "We should go back to Egypt where you will be safe."

From Letter Collection B

Dearest Lia and David,

I understand Aunt Evelyn has already written you about our little burglary, so I make haste to reassure you. Aunt Amelia telephoned poor Mr. O'Connell and scolded him dreadfully for reporting the story, but his wasn't the only newspaper to print it. I fear every journalist in England is familiar with the name of Emerson! The accounts were exaggerated, as they always are; the only fatality was the Professor's favorite bust of Socrates, which was smashed to smithereens by a bullet. No one was hurt, except one of the burglars.

In case Aunt Evelyn didn't mention it, we will soon be following in your footsteps, at least as far as Italy. Poor Daoud has sheepishly admitted that he suffered horribly from seasickness on the voyage over, so we will go by train to Brindisi and board the steamer there instead of sailing direct from London. The Professor has graciously consented to stop along the way in order to show our friends various places of interest. Knowing the Professor, you will not be surprised to hear that the itinerary includes only cities with museums and shops containing Egyptian antiquities...

By the time we reached Brindisi I was not the only member of the party who was glad to leave Europe for sunny Egypt. It had rained in Paris and snowed in Berlin, and on our arrival in Turin we had been greeted by a horrid mixture of sleet and snow. Daoud had been struck all in a heap by the phenomenon of snow; he had stood openmouthed and staring on the Wilhelmstrasse till his face turned blue and his feet turned to ice. He was now suffering from a heavy cold, and was as miserable a man as I have ever seen. (Except for Emerson, who is almost never ill and who behaves like a fiend when he is.)

As soon as we boarded the ship I put Daoud to bed, rubbed him with wintergreen, bundled him up in flannel, and stuffed him full of sleeping medication. The weather was blustery and the sea was rough; Fatima took to her berth, and Selim, who shared Daoud's cabin, declared he did not intend to leave it until we reached Alexandria. They were not the only sufferers; a mere handful of passengers appeared at dinner that night. Even dampened tablecloths did not prevent the plates from sliding and the glasses from toppling. Thanks to the soothing effect of whiskey and soda (a panacea for numerous ailments, including mal de mer), the rest of us were unaffected, and the indisposition of our poor friends providing us with an opportunity for a council of war, we gathered in Emerson's and my stateroom after an excellent, if somewhat lively, meal.

It was really quite cozy, with water lashing across the porthole and the oil lamp swinging wildly, casting fascinatingly distorted shadows across the small room. The solid and surly bulk of Horus helped anchor Nefret to one of the bunks. Emerson's strong arm held me on the other, and Ramses elected to sit on the floor with his feet braced against the wall.

"So how many have we identified?" I inquired.

Ramses extracted a dog-eared list from his pocket. "Seven, including the original scarab. Unfortunately we were only able to purchase three of the remaining six—two scarabs with royal cartouches and a small statue of the god Ptah. The others had already been sold. I've gone over all three and there is no obvious flaw in any of them. When we get to Cairo I will try a few chemical tests."

"If we still have them when we get to Cairo," muttered Emerson, who was inclined to take burglaries of his home personally.

"Nonsense, Emerson," I said. "There is no way the forger can trace these objects to us. No one could possibly have recognized Mr. Applegarth, or his—er—friend."

/ certainly would not have recognized Ramses in his role of a middle-aged, wealthy American collector; even his accent was a devastatingly accurate imitation of our friend Cyrus's voice. Nefret accompanied him, not in champagne satin and citrines, though the crimson ensemble she selected was almost as conspicuous. The only thing that could be said for it was that it concealed her identity quite successfully. It had been obvious to my eye at least that she had stuffed several handkerchiefs into her bodice, and there had been enough paint on her face to disguise three women.

"We still don't know how he traced the first scarab to us," Ramses said.

"We can hazard a guess, can't we?" Nefret demanded. "I dropped an extremely broad hint to Jack Reynolds that day at the Savoy."

"Yes, but that doesn't narrow the possibilities enough," said her brother irritably. "Jack may have passed the remark on to someone else. Mr. Renfrew may have broken his vow of silence. The culprit may have returned to Esdaile's and learned we were there asking about 'Mr. Todros.' Someone else may have been indiscreet."

"It wasn't me," Nefret said indignantly. "You always blame me for talking out of turn. It isn't fair."

Ramses gave his sister a sour look, but nodded. "We are beginning to get a picture of the fellow, though, aren't we? If he is not actually an Egyptologist, he has had extensive training; if he is not an artist himself, he has connections with someone who is. He is annoyingly well-acquainted with our habits, our habitat, and our circle of acquaintances. None of the dealers he approached knew David personally, but
he
knows David well enough to ape certain of his characteristics, including David's preference for English over other languages, though he also speaks German and French and some Arabic."

"He is an expert at disguise," Nefret contributed.

"Not really," Ramses said. "It doesn't take much expertise to darken one's complexion and assume a false beard and a turban."

A particularly violent lurch of the vessel set the oil lamp swinging. The play of light and shadow across Emerson's scowling face turned it into a diabolical mask. I knew what—or rather of whom—he was thinking. Only the Master Criminal could rouse Emerson to such ire.

We had never known his real name or his true appearance. He
was
an expert at disguise and the cleverest criminal we had ever encountered. For years he had ruled the iniquitous underworld of antiquities-smuggling and -fraud like the genius of crime he was. He had all the qualities Ramses had mentioned, and others as damning—a sardonic sense of humor and, as he had once admitted to me, some of the world's most expert forgers in his employ.

"Out with it, Emerson," I urged. "It is Sethos you suspect, is it not?"

"No," said Emerson.

"You always suspect him. Admit it. Do not suppress your feelings; they will only fester and—"

"I do not suspect him. Do you?"

"Not in this case. He swore that he would never harm me or those I love—"

"Don't be maudlin," Emerson snarled. "You may be fool enough to believe the bastard's protestations of noble, disinterested passion, but I know better. Curse it, Peabody, why did you have to bring him up? He can't be behind this business."